


Plausible Deniability

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [299]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU in Which Zemo's Plan Fails, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Caretaking, I Think We Can All See Where This Is Headed Yes?, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Unexpected Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 13:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: The first heat he has after he loses his metal arm is the goddamn worst he’s known in years. 70 of them, to be exact.





	Plausible Deniability

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: I don’t want to be alone. I never wanted to be alone. Prompt from this [generator](https://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

The first heat he has after he loses his metal arm is the goddamn worst he’s known in years. 70 of them, to be exact.

Tony thinks it’s because of the blockers those HYDRA fuckers had him on since 1950 forever because denying his body its natural cycle of burn-fuck-and-release for that long can’t have done him any good. “Messing with your head is one thing, Trotsky Jr.,” Tony tells him once the dust settles, “but wonking with your internal physiological systems? That is some bad shit, my friend. Really bad.”

And he is a friend, Stark, as odd as it seems. They’ve gotten past the _ hey I murdered your parents _ thing, or Tony has, anyway. Bucky still feels a little queasy when he sees the guy at the breakfast table or sitting next to Steve on the couch gesturing wildly or standing out on the balcony of the penthouse, a clandestine cigarette stuck in his teeth.

“Lemme have one,” he’d said the first time he’d caught Tony smoking, “and I promise I won’t tell Steve.”

“Yeah?” Stark had laughed. “Just for that, I’ll let you have the whole pack.”

It’s almost like sitting on the fire escape back home, in a younger version of New York City: swinging his legs over the hot metal and sucking in smoke. Sometimes, he’d ogle the girls across the way, secretaries, who had a habit of not closing their blinds; sometimes, he would lean back on his hands and risk the burn so he could peer down the alley and out into the street. But always, he’d made a point of sucking tar when Stevie wasn’t around because back then the shit kicked the kid’s asthma into high gear. No such danger now; now, according to Tony, Steve just couldn’t stand the damn smell.

“I mean, he _ knows_, and I know he knows. And he knows I know he knows. But as long as I don’t do it inside or in his actual vicinity, well…”

“You have plausible deniability,” Bucky said. “Both of you. Everybody’s happy and you don’t waste time tap-dancing through some bullshit excuse.”

“Mmm,” Stark'd said appreciatively, taking one last, deep drag. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”

It should bother him more, that Stark and Steve are together, that their scents are so intermingled that some days, he can’t smell the two of them apart. The whole place is imbued with it, with _ them_, and when they’d first moved him in, it’d taken him aback because once, he and Steve had been like that, inseparable, but they’d never--he hates to think about this, about chances he once had now last--they’d never mated. A hand in the dark to milk Steve’s knot? Three slim fingers in his cunt help him ride the worst of his heat? Sure, ok. Friends did for friends back then. But Steve had never mounted him and bitten him and filled him up and up and up because back then, nice alphas didn’t fuck omegas without a ceremony and a ring and a priest saying _ now kiss _ and so they hadn’t then and then there was war and before you know it, they’d lost their chance.

And now they’re together again except it’s the future and Steve’s bonded to someone else who Bucky actually likes and there’s a kind of happiness here, living with two people who love each other so goddamn much that they can overcome secrets spilled in a dead, cold place and come back together again. They make him feel safe and wanted and warm and nobody gives him shit for not wanting to leave the penthouse, for not wanting to get in an elevator or take 50 flights of stairs even if the park is beautiful right now and some fresh air would do him some good. Not that he hasn’t heard that before.

“Tony has his cell,” Steve says one afternoon in June before it all goes to hell. “You need us, you call it, ok?”

Bucky rolls his eyes into his coffee. “I heard you the first five times. Bring me back some decent bagels and lox and I’ll be ok, all right? Absolutely fucking fine.”

“Jesus, Rogers,” Tony says, shooting Bucky a grin, “can’t you tell when a guy wants to be alone? Get your ass in the elevator and leave said guy to jack off in peace, huh?”

“To, er--?” That Steve’s faces still turns geranium at the mere mention of sex makes Bucky stupidly happy; the world had turned on its axis, time had gone kookoo, but Steve Rogers was still a virgin at heart. "Oh! Uh..."

Tony gets a hand on Steve’s arm and tows. “Don’t worry,” he calls. “I'm make sure Mother Hen and I here take our time.”

"But seriously," Steve interjects before the doors close, "you need us, Buck, please--"

He hadn’t been thinking about a wank at all--there was a big couch and a beer and a Yankees game top of mind--but once the elevator disappeared and the room went quiet, he could feel the appeal because really, when was the last time he'd made it last, huh, instead of a quick shot in the shower? Fuck, he figures, shooting the last of his coffee and pushing back from the bar, it’s been weeks. 

Five minutes and a drawer emptied later and he’s sprawled out naked on his bed with a half a dozen mags in a jumble beside him: some new and glossy, a few others old and faded with alphas like he remembers from before the war on their covers--coy smiles and coy hands and just a hint of their steel showing, the one jutting from their shorts or their panties and the kind that lay behind the smiles on their faces. The faces on the new covers are all steel; none of the softness there, none of the tease, and that’s why Bucky’s fingers skip over these and reach for the crinkled covers and crumbling pages, the turn of each one ratcheting up the greedy shiver between his legs.

Damn, he thinks, teasing his clit, cupping the soft wet of his folds as the alphas of the past show off what God gave them with a wink and a grin, it has been a while, hasn’t it?

He comes the first time without anything inside him, which never happens; his second shot leaves him trembling like a leaf; and by the fifth--cunt fluttering and fingers soaked and the goddamn need to come now a three-alarm fire--he knows something’s wrong, and even though it’s been 80 fucking years, he knows just what it is:

“_Motherfucker_,” he moans when he gets off again, the words ringing off the windows, the walls. “I’m in heat!”


End file.
